The days that followed were uneasy, but not unbearable. Adrian Moreau, once a man of polished suits and diplomatic calm, now found himself waking each morning with a faint ache in his throat and a strange clarity in his senses. The world seemed sharper — colors brighter, sounds clearer, scents more distinct. It was disorienting at first, but slowly, he began to adjust.
He complained less, though the frustration lingered. At breakfast one morning, he pushed aside a plate of bread Lukas had set before him.
"I can taste the yeast," Adrian muttered, frowning. "Too strong. I never noticed before."
Lukas raised an eyebrow. "That's not a bad thing. You're noticing details. Most people don't."
Adrian sighed, rubbing his temples. "It feels like my body is betraying me. I used to enjoy food without thinking. Now every bite is… analysis."
Étienne, seated elegantly at the table with his ever‑present glass of crimson liquid, smiled faintly. "You are becoming refined, monsieur. Bread is no longer just bread. It is an orchestra of flavors. Consider it a gift."
Adrian shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You don't eat at all."
Étienne chuckled softly, conceding the point.
Despite his complaints, Adrian began to find rhythm in his new existence. He kept his journal, recording each change with meticulous detail: the way his reflection seemed fainter in the mirror, the way his stamina had increased, the way his hunger ebbed and flowed like tides.
Lukas helped him manage the physical strain. "Run with me," the werewolf suggested one evening, tossing Adrian a pair of worn sneakers. "It will clear your head."
They jogged through the fields, the cold air biting at their faces. Adrian struggled at first, but soon found his body stronger than he remembered. His breath came easier, his stride steadier. By the time they returned to the house, sweat clinging to his brow, he felt almost human again.
"Better?" Lukas asked, calm as ever.
Adrian nodded reluctantly. "Better."
Étienne offered guidance of a different kind. He taught Adrian restraint, the art of controlling hunger.
"You will feel it," Étienne explained one night, his voice low as they sat by the fire. "The pull, the ache. It will whisper to you. But you must answer with discipline. Hunger is not command. It is suggestion."
Adrian listened, skeptical but willing. He practiced, resisting the urge when the scent of blood tempted him. He failed sometimes, snapping at Lukas or slamming his journal shut in frustration, but Étienne never scolded. He simply reminded him, gently, that control was learned, not given.
By the end of the week, Adrian had changed. He was still sharp, still intelligent, still the diplomat who could read a room with a glance. But now he carried something more — a quiet strength, a rare balance between man and monster.
He no longer spoke of curses. He no longer slammed his pen in anger. Instead, he wrote calmly, noting his progress, his failures, his victories.
One evening, as the three sat together in the living room, Adrian closed his journal and looked at them both.
"I suppose I can live with this," he said simply.
Lukas smiled faintly. Étienne raised his glass.
"To adjustment," the vampire said.
Adrian exhaled, a small laugh escaping him. "To survival."